The Wish
by Emma Lynch
Summary: When Sherlock reunites an ancient antique dealer with his most prized possession, he is promised unimagined rewards. Dismissive as ever, Sherlock returns to the turbulence of his daily life, not even acknowledging the wishes your heart might make, if you ever allowed it to. Post S4 with heartfelt yearnings and the magical shimmer of a benevolent universe.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: The Granting**

"Excellent!"

John Watson is actually rubbing his hands together. Sherlock scowls, his mood turbulent as he's missed breakfast, lunch and dinner and is inescapably distracted by his latest spat with Mycroft.

"Elementary," he huffs out, kneeling down amongst dust, mouse droppings and the musty thrall of a hundred ancient cast offs. Some would have clapped with delight at this overpriced bric-a-brac, lifting up smeared teacups to read of their origins and opening up crumbling dust jackets, anticipating scrolls from the Dead Sea -

But not he.

Sherlock lifts the pot, noting its worn and scratched patina, its dented underside and its utter lack of charisma and charm and contemplates once more the shining, emotional and humbly grateful eyes of its owner as he passed it across. The only interesting thing about this case, he considered, is the reaction of this odd little fellow in regard to this unremarkable container as they were repatriated. The thief had been opportunistic and easily identifiable by his reliance on the No. 87 Southwark bus and the stripe of paint on his heel from the road markings they were laying down on the corner of Cronniwell Road. This shop itself, a jumble of hand-less clocks and eyeless dolls,with little to interest a serious collector or even a casual tourist.

"Mr Holmes, I cannot thank you enough." His voice is breathy, catching in his throat with feeling, clutching the brass pot to his chest like his livelihood lay therein. Sherlock truly hopes that it does not.

"You have more than done so," he suddenly finds himself speaking more kindly than is his natural inclination. "The case was a simple one (a three at best) albeit a welcome distraction from several others I am wrestling with at the moment."

Why was he engaging with this man? Sharing even. Sherlock checks himself, as is his constant habit.

"May I suggest up-scaling your window locks on the third floor, and please replace the chain at your back gate… with a new back gate."

He is making to leave, despairing at John scribbling notes at the door, eyes lit up (as is _his_ habit at the denouement of any case however turgid), when the small, mole-like hand of Sherlock's latest client shoots out, grasping at his sleeve, bringing him in closer.

"No," the shopkeeper's voice is tight with emotion, sincerity and intent. "No. You do not understand Mr Holmes - " he clutches tightly at the pot with his other hand. "Had I lost this, I would have lost everything!" Again, the bright eyes, sparkling with unshed tears, above a tiny snub nose and wispy black beard which is trimmed and waxed to a point.

Contemplating the state of the place, Sherlock feels this to be a fairly accurate statement but his brain has already mentally moved out of the tiny shop and back to the perplexing issues of Mr Hilton Cubitt, his nervous wife and (predictably) his own appalling brother's meddlesome ways.

"Mr Jinny, the safety of your … stock will be greatly assured if you follow the advise myself and New Scotland Yard have given you. More gratitude is unnecessary."

John is proving irritatingly oblivious to his very clear signals to be gone and Mr Jinny seems most indomitable in his appreciation, still holding onto Sherlock's sleeve and conspiratorially moving him towards the back of the shop, where teetering piles of yellowing _Woman's Own_ magazines stand like recipe-laden sentinels around a small, ramshackle desk. Sherlock suspects he should be wary, but instead, finds his interest piqued (a turn up for the books, in fact) as he surveys the desk, piled high with objects. He notes also that Mr Jinny is watching him carefully, greedily, searching his expression.

"You_ see_! I know you do. You see the connection!"

He would clap if his treasure were not still grasped in his hand. Sherlock affects detachment, as is his wont.

"Three," he murmurs, paying little heed to the excited bubble of sound escaping from his odd client and turning Victorian Christmas cards over with long, pale fingers and feeling the weight of the monkey ornament in his hand. Surprisingly heavy.

"Tell me!" whispers Mr Ginny, conspiratorially, smiling in encouragement. "Explain what you see."

Sherlock rattles off a list, staccato style, as is his preference at these times:

"These cards - French hens, Ships sailing in, Wise men at the stable - _three_. Mawkish Toby jug in style of drunken man - _three sheets to the wind_ in colloquial terms. Then, a snowstorm featuring the Trevi Fountain in Rome - three coins thrown in, if the song is to be believed. A Chrism, for anointing the believer in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit- _the trinity_, and, of course - " holding up the monkeys with hidden eyes, ears and mouth - "three monkeys who are wise. _Three_ connects these objects. Coincidence?"

Mr Jinny's small beard quivers in appreciation, almost as if it were expected.

"Of course not Mr Holmes, sir. There is no such thing as coincidence." (Once more, Sherlock Holmes is irritatingly reminded of his brother and pushes it away immediately.)

"Three, sir, is the magic number. Throughout time, the _Rule of Three_ has held us in its thrall."

"_The Rule of Three_?"

"The laws of universal harmony dictate that three is the most satisfying of groupings; more amusing, more effective, more soothing, more _everything_!"

Sherlock surveys Mr Jinny and considers his position as noises from the door strongly suggest John Watson is making his goodbyes.

"You laid out these objects to test me in some way?"

His client looked almost offended.

"Indeed not, sir. They were there for you to find and categorise since the universe wished it so."

Sherlock begins to move towards his escape route, mindful of his growling stomach and his numerous dead ends that needed fresh mind power.

"Goodnight Mr Jinny," he pulls up his collar against the cooling night air a mere three metres away.

"My gratitude remains Mr Holmes, and must be bestowed. Keep a keen eye out for the Rule of Three and the Universe will find you."

Small, hot fingers brush against his wrist in a facsimile of a handshake, leaving behind the memory of a touch, which grows into a prickle that bizarrely spreads, like sparks from a bonfire, through his palm, his knuckles, warming his fingernails with an almost pulsing heat that causes Sherlock to look down at his own hand, spreading out hot fingers like a glowing star.

"Have you got cramp again? I warn you every time mate - _eat _something, even if it's just a bloody banana!"

John falls into step beside him as they emerge into the merciful freshness of an autumnal London night, leaving dusty tomes and effusive shopkeepers behind them. Sherlock looks down at his hand again as the heat swiftly ebbs away, instantly becoming a distant memory.

He digs his hands deep into his pockets, electing the guise of stroppy, post-case detective, since he has no desire to share nor the ability to explain tonight's encounter.

"Suit yourself. Don't suppose you want to join Lestrade and me for a pint at _The Three Horseshoes_ do you? I'll buy you a bag of crisps."

Sherlock shakes his head, more to clear it of fanciful notions than a flat out refusal. He must be exhausted; he needs to sleep.

"I'll see you later," he turns on the corner of Larkspur and Shotton Street. "Three's a crowd."

**~x~**

* * *

**A/N: hello everyone (is there anybody out there? ;)) It's been an AGE but work is ridiculous and my kitchen is a pile of rubble at the moment so carving out precious time to write has been tortuously difficult.**

**However, when I have managed it, it has kept me sane and so here is a little (slightly magical) tale that allows Sherlock to admit (and possibly acquire) his heart's desires.**

**What could they be?**

**Please let me know what you think! Am always excited for feedback and I've missed you all. :)**

**NB: the first chapter is the introductory one, so smaller than the others. Updates will be regular .**


	2. Chapter 2

**The First**

"Do I look like a carpenter?"

Despite her delightfully scalding and sweetened tea, Mrs Hudson's obscure and often irritating questioning frequently gave Sherlock cause to block out 90% of her commentary; unfortunately, things occasionally seeped through.

"Don't give me that, Sherlock Holmes - I know fine well you can put up a set of shelves in twenty minutes if the mood so takes you."

He shrugged, feeling the tiredness drag at him like water weeds. "Nevertheless, I do not own a screwdriver, and John's hardware collection extends as far as an army revolver and a Swiss Army penknife with a blunt pair of scissors, so I wouldn't be troubling him when he eventually emerges from his hangover."

She winced empathetically.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade at _The Three Horseshoes_ again?"

Sherlock nodded, rustling the paper in what he imagined to be a farewell gesture, yet she remained.

"Well it hardly matters anyway, since I can't even find the 1. They must have taken it with them."

He looked up abruptly.

"_The One_?"

"You haven't been listening have you? Last night, someone came and took it. I'm having to buy another."

Sherlock laid down the paper, regretting his filter settings.

"The front door!" She was clearly exasperated. "We're going to get all the wrong letters from the postman!"

It really was quite odd.

_22 B_

Sherlock looked up at his front door - which had certainly been adequately labelled the night before as he'd stomped up the steps in search of a lie down - and then he peered even closer. His lens showed not only that the number 1 was missing, but also that no screw or nail hole remained as testament to it ever having been there. Should he read up on the self-restorative powers of wood? The door of 221B was at least one hundred years old, so he doubted its sap ever rising again in order to close up any abrasions. But still.

He was still puzzling as a bleary eyed and increasingly panicked flatmate entered the kitchen, dressed in socks, boxer shorts and last night's shirt.

"Someone has accosted our front door." He sat down, lifting the newspaper again as John Watson ignored his flatmate's calm summation, rifling beneath cushions and under table tops, accompanied by a range of expletives muffled by both paper and wood.

"_Shit_, I'm a dead man!"

"Your phone is beneath the Lau's takeaway menu."

Murmurs of relief, punctuated with a tinge of recrimination.

"If you knew, you could have told me. I've been looking for ten minutes Sherlock!"

"I didn't know, I deduced it. Your lack of dinner, the fact that Pau-Lin Palace has been closed for a week for renovations and that Lau's will take a debit card. Also, consideration of the fact that Lestrade usually add shots to the pints approximately three drinks in - "

"He _what_ \- ?!"

"I find it hard to believe you hadn't noticed."

John held his phone in one hand and head in the other; he looked like he was slowly counting.

"Sherlock, I need you to stop talking for a second and let me make clear to you how much of a mess I'm going to be in if I don't book a table tonight for Mary's birthday at her favourite restaurant."

Sherlock stopped talking. It was Saturday lunchtime and they both knew the likelihood of a booking at such late notice was a very small one indeed. Mary's favourite restaurant was also the favourite restaurant of half of London at that current moment. John stared at the phone as if paralysed.

"I should have done it last week."

"Or last month."

John scowled at his friend. Sherlock held out his hand.

"Shall I do it? You seem to be … _stalling_."

Instantly, John passed the phone. Sherlock's poshness and inability to accept a rebuttal sometimes bore dividends where_ maitre d'_s were concerned. He felt sick, weak and distinctly uncourageous. He then walked into the kitchen where he made moves to make tea, almost scared to listen. Within minutes, Sherlock was there, handing his phone back and making towards his wall full of Hilton Cubitt paraphernalia, which had proved frustratingly un-useful during the past eight months or so.

"Shit, I knew they'd be full! She asked me to do it ages ago!"

"Incorrect, they're not full."

John's eyes were wide, matching the smile creeping across his hungover face. Sometimes Sherlock was the man to go to for _things_.

"Oh, that's so amazing - thank-"

"They had a table."

"Brilliant!"

"For _one_."

**~x~**

Although still beautiful, winter had stripped Marylebone Garden's cherry orchard of its former spring and summertime glory. Spiky, dark branches poked into an overcast sky, bare and barren - a facsimile of death - until spring came back in six months' time.

As Sherlock walked he considered himself glad to be out of the toxic atmosphere brewing nicely back at 22 B and in need of some distraction to rid him of his fatigue and deducer's block. _Cherries and death_. He considered the trees once more and then headed west towards Bart's.

Oddly, Molly Hooper's schedule - long since committed to his mind palace - seemed a little unreliable. Not only was she not in the lab, canteen or locker room (slightly out of bounds, but precedents _had_ been set) but Molly, it seemed, had left work early.

"She had to pick something up." A bored clerk, eating an apple and resenting wasting even one minute of her tea break on answering his queries. "Just left. You might catch her, in the car park at the back of the ambulance station."

The gloom was barely enhanced by the tungsten bulbs as he stepped into a half deserted rank of cars, motorbikes and chained up bicycles. A small, pale Fiat rolled courteously around the corner, indicating with plenty of time and consideration for road users and pedestrians alike. Shockingly, its window suddenly whirred down, revealing the smiling face of Dr. Molly Hooper, giving him an additional (yet unnecessary) wave.

"Sherlock! Hey! I saw you from across the car park! Do you like my new car? No more late night Tubes for me."

He recovered quickly. Molly had several, well-established habitats in his mind palace and a vehicular driving seat wasn't one of them.

"You saw me? In this light?" He could think of no other comment and she smiled.

"You're pretty recognisable you know, even in silhouette. Did you need anything? I got off early to get some seat covers."

"I -" he searched. "I needed to - I've lost a glove and wondered if it was in the lab. Just passing."

Whilst most of this was true, he felt somehow exposed by this _car-driving_ version of Molly Hooper in her Red Fiat Uno, and couldn't explain why.

"A glove? No, it's not anywhere I've been today." She peered out into the gloom. "You OK Sherlock? You look tired. Still no luck on Mr Cubitt and that wife?"

"No."

"Mycroft still messing with your stakeouts?"

"He continues to test me, yes."

"Want a lift?"

Her eyes glittered under the orange glow of the lights and shadows danced across her dimpled smile, pooling tiny spots of darkness through the open window. He could see little of her hair beneath a woollen hat, but a wisp escaped, caught in the breeze that brought October leaves tumbling across the carpark. Her smile was real and pure and just for him, and he found his hand across the passenger door handle before another thought could temper his decision.

"I do," he said, smiling right back and climbing inside.

**~x~**

He wakes with a start, sweat prickling as heat rises through his chest, spreading and growing, sweeping through every cell and making it brighter, hotter … making him glow, making him _burn. _

Staggering to his feet, Sherlock feels a shimmering wall of energy coursing through veins, arteries, muscles, bones and pulsing out with every step he takes towards his bedroom door. Catching himself in his dressing mirror, he half expects mercurial eyes staring back like a molten quicksilver, bright and alien - but his face is shadowed in darkness and he throws open the door into a moonlit sitting room. A clock ticks, everything is still, the London streets ethereal in their silence.

Stumbling, he is unwittingly, unconsciously nearing his paper-filled working wall - the fruitless flutter of eight long months and a murderer still at large, dodging apprehension at every tremor on the web surrounding his crimes. The fire within him surges and Sherlock trips forward, throwing out a hand to steady his fall against the wall, fingers splayed as sparks seem to pay forwards into the endless paper trail of names, dates, photographs and cuttings, until -

He stops.

Much as a Victorian photographer's magnesium taper, dazzling light fizzles about him, then into a small fountain of sparks, and then nothing.

One arm still holding himself upright, head bowed and waves of heat rolling over him - almost unbearable - yet now miraculously ebbing, Sherlock catches a shaky breath, then another. He slowly raises his head, looking at the images before him, before the entitled smirk of Mr Hilton Cubitt as the heat dissipates -

And he smiles.

**~x~**

"So … just so I fully understand ... _Mrs._ Hilton Cubitt was really _Mr._ Hilton Cubitt… she didn't actually exist."

Molly drove slowly, as new and horrified by the London midday traffic as Mad Max when he'd first entered the Thunderdome.

"Nope."

John held the box carefully on his lap, overjoyed not to be traversing the Tube with Mary's delicate birthday flowers and the kind of Champagne one buys when making up for missed dinners.

"Years of subterfuge. Living that remotely, combined with his particular talent with photo editing and _Mentalist_-style mind games enabled so much to be accepted. People see what they want to see. He was an exceptionally talented forger - and psychopath."

They both sat in silence for a couple of junctions, perhaps reliving the moment Sherlock stood over Cubitt in the interview room, waving the miraculously recovered fingerprint evidence beneath his set face and remarking how _"marvellous"_ it was he'd discovered a way to_ "enjoy the perfect marriage."_

"I heard half the Met. were watching through the one way mirror," commented Molly, looking desperately for her horn as she was cut up for about the tenth time that day.

John smiled at the memory. Sherlock had placed piece after piece of evidence on the table before Cubitt, explaining calmly how each implicated him further; it was like watching a cascade of dominoes in slow motion.

"He was bloody magnificent to be honest, though I'd never tell him. After eight, long months, he suddenly saw the connections, found the evidence and pulled it out the bag."

And Molly Hooper smiled too, her pride as strong and bright and golden as if it had been her very own success.

Fifteen fretful and traffic-jammed minutes later, a grateful John Watson gingerly alighted in Baker Street, thanking profusely and making invitations for coffee he knew would be politely refused. So instead, he ran an impressed eye over Molly's latest acquisition, noting its smooth-handling and fuel economy, which she actually did enjoy hearing.

"I've always liked Fiats," she said, waving and pulling away.

John hadn't noticed how ponderous he'd been until he stood at the mirror an hour later, fine-tuning his appearance sufficiently for Mary Morstan's eagle-eyes and realising he'd barely said a word to his flatmate who had been happily deconstructing his working wall.

"Sherlock," he began, smoothing down recalcitrant hair.

"You've been thinking," completed Sherlock, irritatingly deadpan in his deconstruction. "My congratulations."

"Hilarious. No, listen."

Sherlock threw his papers down, cast long legs over the back of the sofa, crashing his full body length down along it. He even made it look graceful.

"You don't have to steeple your fingers, I'm not a client."

Sherlock pouted.

"I thought you deserved the full effect. Please, go on with your most interesting narrative."

"What's happened to your gloves? It's pretty cold and you've got your hands in your pockets all of the time."

Whatever Sherlock was expecting from his flatmate, his slightly widened eyes betrayed this wasn't anywhere near it.

"Ye-es… I lost one the night I returned from the junk shop case. Annoying but hardly enough to explain the cogitations of the last sixty minutes."

John leaned forward in his chair, resting forearms on thighs, ernest enough to claim his flatmate's full attention.

"And what about the restaurant, where only a table for one was available. Unusual in that particular place I would say."

"Hardly, but do go on."

"Molly Hooper's car."

"A Fiat."

"A Fiat _Uno_. One again."

Sherlock untented his fingertips, leaning into his knuckles and contemplating his friend. No signs of intoxication, delirium or even the slightest hint of humour. He decided to go along with it as there was clearly a denouement approaching.

"Finally," John splayed out hands in a conclusive gesture. "Finally, there's the door, the missing number 1. Not even a sign it was ever there. Explain that!"

Sherlock bit down a smile since he loved John the most when he tried deducing things and could not bring himself to show even a hint of mockery.

"I can't," he said, sitting up straight, "but your links are both tenuous and without purpose. Numbers can be used to link any number of events - today is the first of November; Molly has one cat; Mrs Hudson has (sadly) only one level of decibels when speaking to either one of us at any time - the list could be endless. What would it all mean anyway?"

Slightly deflated, John Watson sat up and shrugged.

"Ah, I dunno. I'm just rambling. Getting carried away I suppose after filing last year's cases. Forget it." He stood up, brushing imaginary lint from his trousers and peeking again at the wayward tuft near his temple.

"I'd better be getting off to meet Mary." He gathered up ivory, richly scented gardenias and chilled Moet in a rustle of tissue and ribbon and made for the door.

"Don't wait up," he added, before galloping down the stairs two at a time, smile creeping in before he'd even left the room and leaving Sherlock contemplating that if the ridiculous construct of _'the one'_ actually existed, perhaps John Watson had already found her.

**~x~**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Second**

"But it's never twins!"

John's shorter legs and lack of a head start forced him to weave through innocent by-standers and virtually hop over buggies to catch up with his extremely disgruntled detective, who strode ahead in a sweeping Belstaff and an air of _high dudgeon_.

"Yes, I know," returned a furious Sherlock Holmes, only recently returned from a familial visit to his brother's club in Pall Mall and still feeling the sting.

"But when you convince my brother of that fact, we might be able to proceed with this investigation."

As they turned the corner into Carlton Gardens, John was grateful to find the pace slowing, although his friend's ire remained fiery.

"So he's said no to permission to enter the Palace gardens?"

"And to think, I actually attempted to go through the 'proper channels' this time, and for what?! So he has the malicious pleasure of saying no!"

"Her Majesty actually is in residence this weekend Sherlock - the security would be a nightmare."

They continued to march along past Waterloo Gardens in silence, but John sensed a line had been crossed between the two brothers in this culmination of point scoring, power struggling and insidious intellectual one-upmanship.

"This must stop," gritted out Sherlock, reflecting his thoughts as they climbed into a cab while the forecast evening rainfall began to ooze from the battleship grey sky.

**~x~**

Twenty four hours later, Sherlock was a little surprised to see a long-lost face arrive to escort him from the holding cell.

"Sergeant Donovan, it's been too long. Where's Lestrade? He normally gets me out before ten thirty - I have evidence to present and a saliva culture that's not getting any younger."

She gave an emotionless smile, keying open the door and shrugging. "Not long enough in my humble opinion. The laws of trespass, especially regarding the Royal family, are clear cut and applicable to the whole of the nation, including you."

Sherlock nodded an acknowledgement and noted her scuffed shoe, (not daily wear and tear if it wasn't both) dried leaves in her hair and two drops of blood across her shirt cuff, a shirt that had only recently been tucked in to her waistband. The leaves looked local to the sparse row of beech trees outside the front entrance of NSY. Her colour was high and there were light dots of perspiration across her upper lip.

"With whom have you been fighting Sally? And what's happened to Lestrade?"

The collar had been a clean one - Jonas and Richard Arbuthnot came quietly once the Met and their blues and twos arrived at their warehouse - but the trip from the van to the cells had seen resentment, panic and inbred aggression erupt into fisticuffs, thus DI Lestrade (and his two front teeth in particular) had suffered the consequences.

Molly Hooper was emptying the last centrifuge rotation of the day as Sherlock recounted the day's events. Far from being shocked about any compromising of Royal safe-keeping, she smirked into her test tubes and saved her concern for the Detective Inspector's incisors.

"Oh my god, Sherlock! Poor Greg - although they can probably be saved if he gets quick treatment."

"If not, he can always wear an eye-patch, buy a bird, and become a pirate."

She laughed hard, throwing her head back and he found his face glow with pleasure. He'd made a joke; he never made jokes. He shifted in his seat, swirling the cold coffee dregs around, pretending he had not noticed the symmetry of her face - two almond-shaped eyes, dark and light at the same time, two brows arched like finely sketched bird wings, two dimples deepening as her smile grew wide.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she reached out, unconsciously touching his arm, and it felt like a blow.

"You must think me cruel!"

"No."

_I don't think that. Not at all -_

_I think..._

_I think._

_I think I am drawn to the way your hand hovers above the bench, fingers splayed, hesitant to decide; I think your smile hides a thousand unspoken thoughts - words you might or might not say; I think of the auburn sheen of hastily piled up hair, tied and twisted with little thought but making me ache to touch it all the same. I think myself drawn to the comfort of your warm and generous heart, which forgives where I cannot and gives thought and consideration to an undeserving humanity. I think I am addicted to your patience with my impetuous, thoughtless and frequently callous behaviour. And I think I shall always need your unreserved kindness, the rarest of all virtues in such an egocentric and spiteful world._

"Good!" She smiled, gathering up the coffee cups and looking around for her bag and keys.

"Because I was less than kind when bloody Anderson came beaming into the lab this morning with two hundred quid he doesn't deserve to boast about."

"Oh?" Ever casual, fidgety, yearning dangerously for a cigarette.

"Yeah. Two way bet on _Dinner a Deux_ at Aintree in the Cup."

"I see. But look how rarely the universe smiles on him."

"True, but not as rare as him buying a drink for us in _The Swan with Two Necks_ tonight - come on - I'm having tequila!"

And it was Sherlock's turn to smile.

**~x~**

He could not join them in _The Swan_. Molly understood, of course, but this time he regretted his intolerance regarding his fellow man and their pedestrian interests. This time, he felt less superior and ever so slightly … _cowardly_.

Sherlock stopped suddenly at his front door, looking almost stupidly at its disparity. Mrs Hudson had indeed found a screwdriver and taken delivery of a new number 1, but all was not well.

The twos were now gone.

Both of them.

He stepped into the hall where a deathly quiet indicated _gin rummy_ at Mrs Turner's and yet another romantic excursion on the part of John Watson. It was only on the second stair though that the now familiar warmth began in his fingertips, causing him to slough off his long coat, heavy with the mist and the dark night air, letting it fall as he raced upwards towards their rooms.

_Dear God, not again._

Ripping back the shower curtain, he shucked off his shoes, stepped in full clothed and twisted the dial until icy, November-chilled water gushed over hair, shirt, trousers, making no difference to a burning skin that prickled and pulsed with a power he could not harness. Sparks seemed to crackle as Sherlock fell to his knees, letting the water find its course, rolling over every arch, every dip until the heat slowly, gradually, ebbed to nothing.

His hand rose to turn off the water and Sherlock detested how it trembled as it did so. He knelt, letting the chill of the air and heavy silence steady his breathing, suddenly noticing a distant, shrill and insistent ringing from the hall downstairs where his phone had been discarded along with his Belstaff.

It rang for a long time.

_**~x~**_

"Six months you say?"

"If he lasts that long." Sherlock rustled the newspaper, his face hidden yet entirely imagined by John at the breakfast table. "One cannot always predict, the weather being so very … _unsuited_ to a man of his complexion."

"Up to 39 degrees in November I hear."

"Not entirely conducive to pin-stripe."

"_Our Man in Fujirah_ \- who knew we even had an office there?"

Sherlock turned a page, still holding up the paper.

"We do - and now with an extra little piece of the British Government to buy biscuits for. Such a pity one has to travel 4772 miles for a packet of gingernuts."

Sitting back in his chair, John pushes away his egg, unable to_ un-smirk_ his face. It had happened so suddenly, so hurriedly, so very _conveniently_.

"It seems unlikely Mycroft would request a secondment to a lesser known Emirate when he's plenty of issues to put his efforts into over here. Why did he agree?"

"Why indeed? Suffice to say, his efforts will be 4772 miles away from myself and _my_ issues, which is most fortuitous for me and most _un_fortunate for the criminal classes of London."

Folding the paper then leaning forward, Sherlock scooped up an expensive looking key fob from beside the butter dish. Flippantly tossing and catching it, he pushed back his chair and stood up.

"Such a pity the Foreign Office couldn't justify shipping out the Bentley too. Fancy a spin? I may have deleted driving, but I'm sure it'll come back to me."

His eyes glittered with a rare devilment and colour brightened his habitual paleness. He looked jubilant, almost lit from within, but John felt something shift inside his own psyche; something vaguely unsettling.

"The Cubitt case, Mycroft's lengthy trip to southern climes; everything's looking pretty lucky for you right now."

Sherlock turned from the door, collar up, keys in hand, his flippancy gone.

"We make our own luck John," he said.

_**~x~**_

Sherlock alighted from the platform of the Number 87 Southwark bus, taking the corner of Cronniwell Road and shoving hands deep into his pockets against the creeping November frost. His current mood was not improved by the discovery of a worn leather glove in each of them - oh, John would have a field day when he knew.

Sherlock truly resented this whole excursion since every moment, every footstep, every mile chipped away a little more of the logical patina that defined who he actually was.

Ridiculous supernatural conjecture had no place in his mind palace. It was up there with fairy rings, throwing salt over your shoulder and not walking on the cracks in the pavement. The idea that the Universe had discernible, inter meshed plans for us all - that we had no control over our destiny - bar throwing coins down a well, finding a four leaf clover or crossing our fingers - was beneath contempt. Idiots pedalling insights into our futures with crystal balls and unscrupulous palm reading needed to stay in their gaudy circus tents and avoid Baker Street at all costs. The corporeal world was filled sufficiently with crime and disappointment, no ghosts need apply.

So why was he looking for a man who _did_ believe? Why was he back here? The shop where Mr Jinny held him fast and told him fortune would smile upon him.

He had (fairly typically) disparaged John Watson's conjecture regarding the _number one_ some weeks ago. A random selection of unrelated conjecture, parcelled up into a coincidentally labelled bag of tricks John had chosen to bestow with wide-eyed astonishment.

Ridiculous.

In truth, the universe _was_ lazy. There was no grand plan.

_And yet_

_(The Arbuthnot twins, Lestrade's front teeth, Anderson's horse, (Dinner a Deux for God's sake!), the 2s now missing from the front door and the perfect, undiluted, symmetrical beauty of Molly Hooper's face)_

Sherlock stood perfectly still outside of the tiny bric-a-brac shop he had stood inside of barely two months before and closed his eyes

_(two gloves now in his pockets, reunited with their owner with no effort on his part)_

He breathed in slowly, knowing and yet hoping it would be there

_(he had solved an unsolvable case; he had shaken an unshakeable big brother. Two strongly felt desires had been realised without an actual plea being uttered, without a question asked, without a coin thrown in the well … )_

Opening them again, his pale eyes assessed in the once shabby frontage that now shone smartly with glossy black paint and gold lettering above the door, the musty window display now lit with glittering halogen light, and picking out expensive leather-bound notebooks that would always be monogrammed by the people who bought them. Additionally, a keypad beside the (expertly painted) door frame that spoke of invitation only, warding off those without _monogram money_.

He stood long enough as the door pinged open, allowing a Belgravian-dwelling, expensively coiffed woman (doing a friend a favour minding the shop front since they had been to Cambridge together) to offer confirmation.

"Can I help you?"

She wanted to be supercilious, but clearly recognised him - that curiosity was as tangible as it was irritating - and offered invitation with eyes and open doorway.

"How long have you been in business?" He stood fast, having no inclination for subterfuge nor patience.

She blinked, slightly startled by such directness.

"Oh - _gosh_ -" Her brow would have crinkled at this juncture had chemical interference allowed.

"_Ages."_

Her husband was not at home as often as she would have liked.

"_Years."_

He was both unfaithful and a profligate gambler.

"Two years, actually, now I remember." She smiled, and it seemed genuine. "The opening party was two years today - exactly!"

"Thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, turning into the night.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" She seemed less than eager to return to the warmth of the shop and he sensed her fear.

"Check your bank account," he replied, letting the London darkness swallow him up and take him back to Baker Street.

**~x~**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Third**

Sherlock hears the footfall on the stair before the first clink of teaspoon on china and deduces its proponent before the second (three sugars in a cup of tea required quite the commitment where stirring was concerned).

"The door's open."

He stifles a yawn, pulling the bed sheet a little tighter over one shoulder _(one had standards after all)._

"Blimey Shezzer, you pull an all nighter? It's nearly 3 in the afternoon."

Sherlock turns, suddenly focused, acute, intent.

"Any news from Limehouse? Did you find _Black Peter_? Was the anchor still damaged? Damn, I'd imagine they'd had plenty of time to replace it - I have been most remiss these past few days."

Bill Wiggins takes the treacly brew from Sherlock's hands and settles himself across the couch. His sharp, rapacious eyes surveying his surroundings, missing nothing. Sherlock notices him noticing and is almost proud.

"'old on a minute, I've had quite the journey from down there, I can tell you."

Wiggins sips the tea gratefully, squinting slightly through the steam and adds:

"You bin tidyin' up?"

No papers are strewn beneath him, no pungent offerings clogging up the kitchen. The curtains are actually tied back and the dust is most definitely on the wane.

"You got a cleaner dint ya? Doctor Watson's new lady giving you an earful about the mess I shouldn't wonder - "

Emperor-like, Sherlock pulls the sheet tighter as he feels around in the cupboard for biscuits and reboils the kettle. He says nothing.

"Even your workin' wall looks smarter."

"So, if we might return to the _Black Peter_?"

Wiggins opens his mouth to answer just as the faint, lilting notes of a violin swell from the depths of the house, winding its way between them and stopping him short.

He tilts his head, letting the music speak and notes that Sherlock Holmes continues in his lack of commentary, uncharacteristically busying himself with cups and plates and biscuits.

"Well, that ain't _you_."

"A recording; Francisco Dolmandes with The Royal Philharmonic. "

Wiggins stared at him without comment.

"It's Beethoven - his third symphony."

"Nice."

"_Eroica_."

"Catchy. Good tone."

Sherlock looks up, his eyes translucent, glittering, his hair unkempt, raked through - and their eyes meet.

"There are three elements of tonal duration in music," says Sherlock quietly, picking up two mugs from the counter top. "Rhythm, methrum and tempo. In case you were wondering."

"Fancy that." Bill Wiggins stands, putting the empty mug down.

_(A moment, a beat, a tempo, then -)_

"Think I'll come back later Shezzer. I reckon the _Black Peter_ can wait a bit longer in dry dock, if truth be told."

The music sways about them, drifting then climbing and falling like an ebbing tide, it's origins clearly being from Sherlock's bedroom.

"I think you might be right."

The sheet trails behind behind him as he nears his closed door, balancing cups that are slightly overfilled.

"Do help yourself to a biscuit on your way out."

And a grinning Bill Wiggins crams three deep into his pocket (and one in his mouth) as Beethoven sends him merrily down the seventeen stairs from whence he came.

**~x~**

**Three months earlier.**

Sherlock Holmes lies across his bed, trying to regulate his breathing as the heat at last begins to dissipate. This has been by far the worst episode, as testified by the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets and wide open windows in December. He feels as if the energy coursing through his every cell could have lifted him from the mattress as wave after wave of fire pulsed right through and wrung him out. This time, he'd felt it in every muscle, every fibre, every follicle - by God, even his teeth burned like hearthstones inside his mouth as he gritted them tight, locking in any sounds.

Despite being a floor away from a doctor, Sherlock knows this malady is nothing that can be treated, or even explained. There are no after effects, no physical scarring, no visible sign anything at all had been amiss, just a lingering fatigue from lack of sleep.

Once again, his phone lies untouched on the bedside table, and it rings and rings.

Thus, he had not been ready when she told him later that morning, not prepared at all - and that was the catalyst, that was his undoing.

**~x~**

Lestrade had been more than a little frantic when he'd finally got in touch, owing undoubtedly to the indecently close proximity of the discovery. There had also been sixteen missed calls before the inspector had been reduced to texting.

_Body parts. Thought you might be interested. GL_

_Why should I be interested? I have my own. SH_

_These are in a wheelie bin. Freshly cut. GL_

_Go on. SH_

_In a carpark. GL_

_Understandable. SH_

_Our car park. GL_

New Scotland Yard was proud of its security. Its very presence as a bastion of Metropolitan law and order had allowed it a certain immunity to the threat of criminality, the low underbelly, the filth of London crimes and misdemeanours. Thus, when three severed feet were discovered by an unfortunate kitchen worker from the Met's staff canteen as he dispensed with his potato peelings, the tremors of the breech were felt across the entire building.

"I'm sorry, you say it's _blank_?"

Sherlock came to a sudden stop, causing a near collision with his blogger who had again been racing to keep up.

Greg shook his head.

"Can't understand it either. Our system is used by the Pentagon; it has a fail-safe for its fail-safe. Not even erased, just no footage."

"So no video footage, despite a camera placed a mere metre away from the wheelie bin."

"No, and before you ask, not a scratch on the camera to show any tampering. Just no recording for a short period of time last night. Before and after, clear as a bell."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, not realising that this was a familiar _tell_ to John Watson - a tell that he was slightly uncomfortable with the question he was about to ask (_rare and therefore easy to spot_).

"What time did the cameras fail and resume?"

He looked down (another tell and John felt bemused that such a straightforward question should be awkward).

Lestrade consulted his notebook.

"Working until 3.33 am, back on at 3.36." He looked up. "A three minute window it seems."

"Of course it was," murmured Sherlock Holmes, resuming his journey down the corridor and into his own personal rabbit-hole. "All the time the universe could need."

**~x~**

Molly Hooper was bustling.

Sherlock leaned on the counter, waiting for her to finish emptying the centrifuge and observing her without appearing to.

She was bustling not because she had an appointment or that the results from the machine were vital to anything but a run-of-the-mill drugs overdose, but because she was - _uncomfortable._

Sherlock shifted, lowering his eyes, hoping that Lestrade wouldn't pester him for too long over this case _(since it would honestly never be solved and the three minutes he'd spent discussing the severance wounds with Molly were three minutes he'd never get back)_ and wondering why discomfiture seemed so prevalent today.

"You need to tell me something."

It wasn't a question.

Molly paused, hesitating sufficiently to confirm his summation.

Goodness, thought Sherlock, this is something she thinks will -

"I'm leaving."

Hurt me.

**~x~**

Edinburgh University was a prestigious school which needed a well-qualified and focused pathologist.

So was Aberdeen.

So, it seemed, was Oxford.

"It's ridiculous."

They sat in the tiny, 1970s-decorated snug of _The Three Horseshoes_ as Sherlock Holmes had to listen to why Molly Hooper was leaving London _(him)_.

"They want me to start with only three weeks' notice instead of three months, but that's just … well, it's not on."

She swirled her glass (nails bitten to the quick, hand cream run out but not replaced) and he glanced at the server who subsequently brought a bottle this time.

"You worry about your current caseload?"

She frowned.

"My current job, Sherlock, is not the only reason I've had qualms about taking on a new one."

She absently pushed back a fall of hair, searching again for the right collection of words, the ones that will cause the least damage because Molly Hooper is kind and brave and heartfelt.

"It seemed to come from nowhere. First a conference call with Edinburgh's Head of Pathology and then an email from the Dean at Magdalen. Then Aberdeen came in with a ridiculous offer which Mike had to advise me to take, even though he'd said he'd fight for me."

She slumped over the tiny table, elbows around her wine glass, chin cradled in her hands and eyes suddenly beseeching, uncertain.

'Fight for me? Sherlock, it's proper out-of-the-blue ridiculous - I'm perfectly happy at Bart's. I … I like the people I work with and I haven't updated my LinkedIn since forever and now three prestigious schools of Medicine are fighting for my services? How has this happened?"

He finds he has a powerful desire to touch her but closes it down.

"Three feet," he says instead.

"In the bins at the Yard?' If she's startled by his sudden _volte face_, she doesn't show it; she's very much used to it.

"They also _make_ a yard. Thirty six inches," he added, for clarity.

She actually smiles, momentarily distracted from her dilemma and he is pleased. He was becoming quite the joke-maker. It would have to stop.

"People should fight for you Molly Hooper." He wasn't planning the words, he was a mere conduit as they came spilling out.

"You are worth fighting for."

Sherlock looks down at her beautiful hands _(her bitten nails with half moons, stained by chemicals, nicked by a hurried scalpel)_ as cool fingers wrap around his own, and he feels that Edinburgh, Aberdeen and Oxford have been a trifle presumptuous.

**~x~**

**Three months later.**

Thus, it appeared that three was the most satisfactory of groupings.

_Onme trium perfectum_.

Three Little Pigs, Three Billy Goats Gruff, three coins in the fountain, three wrongs don't make a right, three wise monkeys … the list was endless, since the universe very much favoured the _Rule of Three_, ensuring that justice was done as the third wish was finally granted.

"Goodness," breathed Molly Hooper, wrapped only in Beethoven and Egyptian cotton, and spying the tea. "Is that for me?"

Should a wish be a precise, conscious request spoken into the ether as you throw your coins as offering down the well, or catch a dandelion seed as it floats by, or even as you claim the lion's share of the wishbone?

Or should it be an unconscious yearning? A desire you fail to admit to even yourself and which is only realised by a fairy godmother, or a Rumplestiltskin, or a_ genie?_

Mr Jinny had been so very relieved to have his brass pot restored to him - perhaps a good deed replaced the actual rubbing of the genie's domain and wishes were plucked from your subconscious by a greedy universe, eager to balance the scales.

Sherlock laid down the tea beside the woman his heart had asked for, then pushed the sheet from his shoulders.

"Your wish," he said, sitting down beside her on his rumpled bed and smiling into her endless eyes, "is my command."

**~x~**

**Post Script: The Rule of Three**

It had been almost a year since the mystical, unfathomable heat had burned through him, so Sherlock was taken unawares as the familiar tingles started in his hands.

"You OK? You look weird."

John Watson whispered through the semi-darkness and Sherlock cursed the timing of this particular supernatural announcement, since the success of the stakeout very much depended on _silence_.

"M'fine," he hissed, letting the waves flood through, since cold showers had proven useless and riding it out seemed the only solution. Difficult in company, but he'd done worse. Mercifully, however, this seemed to be very much a shorthand version and within minutes, the heat began to ebb until it was little more than a glow.

"You look OK now," verified John, causing Sherlock to peevishly note his medical degree had been worth every penny.

Truthfully, he was concerned. Whilst the precursor had been manageable, why was it happening at all? As he'd understood the whole bizarre situation, three wishes were your lot: the universe found you, doled out the goodies and then turned it's attention to another fortuitous soul. Was this a punishment? A reversal of fortune? Was he now undeserving?

Sherlock shook his head to let those thoughts fly. This was the way that madness lay and he really had no interest in a seven percent solution to calm his racing brain these days. Life was calm; whole. He carried his greatest reward in his heart daily and it was everything _(she was everything)_ he had never even anticipated.

John was in his ear again, gesturing with his revolver towards the pub door and its growing shaft of light.

"The game's on," he whispered, his teeth glinting in the darkness.

**~x~**

Once the flame had been lit (so to speak), Sherlock realised as he heard Molly Hooper's key in his front door, it was really just a matter of joining up the dots.

There was nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact he considered, listening to her light footfall ascending the stairs. Something can be staring you in the face and all the evidence on the earth was useless until a brain had decided to observe, and to deduce.

Even her footsteps sounded different.

Bringing in the cold chilled air of a London night, her cheeks were pink, her hair dotted with glinting drops from the light drizzle and her scarf was wound around three times, preventing his view of her beautiful mouth.

"Cold," he smiled after kissing it.

"I've felt colder," she smiled back, "sorry, inappropriate morgue humour."

She took off her gloves.

"We sorted the Brinkburn distillations today. Definitely arsenic. You were right."

He poured her tea, he liked making tea for her, but -

"Why are you frowning? You were right about the arsenic Sherlock. They'd tried so very hard to disguise it too."

"I don't think you should be involved in poisons for a while."

She opened her mouth to answer and then stopped, staring him straight in the eye.

"You are the absolute _worst_ person to try and keep a secret from. Who was I kidding thinking I could! Bet you've known for ages haven't you?" She laughed, eyes shining because she could see how he felt about it immediately; no mask, no more Mr Inscrutable.

"You've probably known since conception!"

"Not quite as early as that," he smiled into her hair, knowing now that the Universe was finally done with him, and everything was aligned just as it should be.

**THE END**


End file.
